


i think of what the world could be

by seaqueen



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Blanket Permission, Catharsis, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Podfic Welcome, Post Game 7 feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 11:35:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18603724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaqueen/pseuds/seaqueen
Summary: Alex can read him like a book. The shadows in his eyes are back, the ones banished last year; and the lingering ghosts have returned to nip at his heels and tuck themselves in every tight line at the corners of his mouth. He turns his face to press a kiss to the center of Nicke’s palm, and Nicke softens.Alex and Nicke take care of each other in the wake of elimination.





	i think of what the world could be

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you gotta write that cathartic id fic. beta'd by the wonderful amy <3

Nicke follows him home.

They don't talk about it, don't say much of anything to anyone, or to each other, once the media has cleared out. Alex is simply glad Nicke isn't slinking off alone to lick his wounds the way he had when they were younger. He'd let him, if that was what he wanted, but he's grateful he doesn't have to. He needs Nicke tonight too.

Nicke stalks into the house behind him, a caged beast off his chain as he prowls into the kitchen. He sheds his jacket and tosses it thoughtlessly on the island, sleeves pushed up to his elbows and tie hanging loose at his chest. Alex hovers in the door, just watching him. Nicke feels the weight of his gaze and turns away from the fridge where he’s just retrieved two bottles of Gatorade, handing the red one to Alex who only holds it as he continues watching him. There is a dangerous kind of brittleness to his lover right now, the kind that will shatter at a wrong touch. Alex keeps his hands to himself.

He paces, uncaring of Alex’s concerned eyes, drinking off half his bottle and then leaving it behind forgotten on the island.

“Time for bed.” Alex says, and Nicke’s gaze snaps to him. His nostrils flare and the look in his eyes is bordering on feral - it’s a look Alex knows too well, when the demons in Nicke’s chest have woken up and reared their heads and refuse to lay down and be silenced. Alex puts down the unopened Gatorade and this time he does reach for him. Nicke doesn’t shrug off his touch but it’s a near thing. Alex herds him up the stairs towards their bedroom.

Nicke crowds him as soon as they make it through the door. "Let me see," he demands, arms crossed over his chest and scowl foreboding. Alex flinches as Nicke leans into his space and pins him with a glare; but his hands fall obediently to the buttons of his shirt and he undoes them one by one under Nicke’s watchful eye.

Alex hates that they have a ritual to this now. A ritual for losing, for the devastation too big to fit inside their skins. It’s too many years of losses and heartbreak, stacked on top of one another. Last year had wiped all that clean - knocked all the weight from his shoulders and Alex had felt like he could stand tall and true for the first time in a decade. But it doesn’t make this year sting any less. It hurts in its own new way - knowing what that joy tastes like and losing it again.

He slips the shirt off and tosses it aside and Nicke’s frown is severe as his gaze skips over his skin, over every bump and bruise of a long season and a too short postseason. “On the bed.” He says, and Alex slips past him to climb into the center of their bed, losing his pants in the process. Nicke methodically undoes each button, each cuff; folds his shirt neatly over the back of the chair and hang his slacks atop it. He disappears out the door for a moment and Alex slumps against the headboard, letting the sadness swamp over him. Nicke’s back in a moment, carrying a bowl of ice from the kitchen and a stack of towels. He puts it all on the bedside table and then sits on the bed next to Alex and reaches out to cup his jaw.

Alex can read him like a book. The shadows in his eyes are back, the ones banished last year, and the lingering ghosts have returned to nip at his heels and tuck themselves in every tight line at the corners of his mouth. He turns his face to press a kiss to the center of Nicke’s palm, and Nicke softens.

He gathers the ice in one of the towels, and Alex relaxes. It’s cool against his still overheated skin, Nicke’s careful hands tracking every mark and pressing cool hands and ice against them. Alex holds still as Nicke methodically works his way from the tips of his fingers and over his arms, across his collarbone and down his chest; over his hips and down his legs - no inch of Alex’s skin escapes his attention. None of it hurts, not really; bruises at most this year - but Nicke needs to take care of him. Alex can’t, won’t, begrudge him that.

The ice goes back in the bowl and Nicke comes back up to him and kisses the corner of his mouth. “What hurts?” He asks, some of the sharpness of his tone already bled off. Wordlessly Alex points to a particularly brilliant bruise high on his hip from blocking a puck. It doesn’t, not really, but Nicke needs this.

Nicke’s lips are warm, hot even, after the chill of the ice. He kisses the edges of the bruises gently, thumb stroking across abused skin. He repeats the gesture on a smaller one lower at the top of his thigh. Alex lifts his hand to him. Nicke’s lips are soft against the sensitive skin on the inside of his wrist, and he kisses the bruise just above where his glove ended. Alex shivers.

Every touch of his lips is deliberate, reverent. Nicke follows the same path he had with the ice, careful to kiss every single bump and bruise that mars Alex’s skin - he lingers over the scars that hockey has put on his body. Alex can see some of the tension bleeding off him as he goes. There is nothing they can do but this, take care of one another. More than a decade together, years here together in this bed side by side against the world, and all Alex can give him right now is this. It hasn’t been enough in the past - Nicke had gone home to Sweden to lick his wounds in private and left Alex behind and that had stung; Alex had gone away to Russia to remember what it felt like to think he could achieve anything and everything. They’d rubbed at each other and grated at one another year after year of falling short, of not being enough.

But in the end it would always be them. It was always going to be Nicke for Alex, and they’d always found their way back to each other after the pain dulled. And Alex _can_ give him this - let him take care of Alex and do something he knows he can do. It comforts Nicke to take care of him now, and in the morning he will let Alex take care of him in return, when the loss is not quite so acute and Nicke isn’t the same pulsating raw nerve.

Nicke kisses the hollow of his hip and the inside of his knee. Alex sighs. There’s a distant lazy coil of want somewhere around him, but it’s far from his mind as Nicke delicately presses a kiss to the arch of Alex’s ankle and then moves to return to him. Alex curls a hand at the base of his neck and pulls Nicke in to kiss him. Nicke is softer now, more pliant under Alex’s hands - the dangerous tension of him, like a bow strung too tight, is gone. Alex kisses him unhurriedly, no purpose beyond the simple comfort of it. Nicke steadily uncoils under his hands, curling his fingers against Alex’s sides. He sighs into Alex’s mouth and nips at his bottom lip and Alex huffs a quiet laugh. And then Nicke is drawing back, shifting his body weight and moving down Alex’s body again.

He settles himself between Alex’s thighs, and Alex threads his fingers through soft golden curls. He pulls lightly as Nicke swallows him down - a little harder as the head of his cock nudges up against the back of Nicke’s throat. Alex is already close, a haze of want swiftly clouding his thoughts; after years Nicke knows exactly how to play Alex’s body as masterfully as a concert pianist. It’s only a matter of moments before he groans and pulls; coming down Nicke’s throat as Nicke swallows. It’s just the right side of too sensitive as Nicke withdraws, the press of his tongue licking Alex clean; and then he’s coming up to kiss Alex sweetly with the taste of him still on his tongue.

There’s still a guarded look to his eyes, but softened now; the ghosts held at bay for the moment. He lets Alex curl him close as he rests his head on Alex’s shoulder, and sighs as Alex reaches to close a hand around him and stroke him lazily. His moans are breathy, soft, and he exhales shakily as he comes across Alex’s hip. Alex kisses the top of his head, and Nicke noses at his neck to bury his face there.

Alex is ready when the first sob wracks him, the choked off sound against his neck where Nicke tries to conceal it, the emotion finally breaching the surface from where Nicke has buried it since the final buzzer sliced through them. He strokes his hair. Nicke’s shoulders shake with the force of it, his tears wet against his neck. Alex’s eyes are far from dry himself, and he carefully moves until he can tuck Nicke better against his chest and let him cry in the protective circle of his arms; far from the world and anything anyone is going to say about them, or this series, or this year. There is more than enough time for that later.

Nicke’s sobs eventually subside. Alex strokes his spine soothingly and lets him stay where he is, buried against his collarbone. Nicke eventually lifts his head to look at him. His eyes are red and bloodshot, but clear.

“Yeah, Nicke.” Alex murmurs, shifting Nicke’s body to position him more comfortably, pressing their foreheads together. “I’m here baby.” Nicke smiles wetly at the pet name, and Alex is so, so grateful to see that he looks settled again; centered - as if he isn’t spinning off his axis far beyond where Alex can reach him. Nicke leans in to kiss him.

“I hate losing.” Nicke grumbles, and Alex smiles.

“You not say.” He says dryly, earning a soft bite for his efforts.

Nicke hums and tucks himself against Alex again. Alex reaches and uses the corner of the sheets to make a cursory attempt at cleaning them off before giving it up for a lost cause, unwilling to get up and do it properly. He gets the covers over them instead and reaches to turn off the light, plunging them into darkness. Nicke sighs, but it’s lighter; the burden slipping away.

“We get them next year.” Alex says in the dark, and he smiles against his skin.

“Sure, why not?” Nicke answers.

 


End file.
